These broken ribs, they pierce our lungs
by SpaceSpirit
Summary: A snapshot. Gordon is broken and Scott is processing.


It's been the end of the world before.

Things shake and fall and crack through the earth, the sky bruising like an underworld. Bare feet pound on dirt, _thud, thud_, _thud_, and there are screams so loud Scott hears them for weeks.

He can still hear them now, if he tries. He can hear it all. The world tearing itself apart with a whine. The ache of a crumbling wall, the fizz of a skeletal car, the crunch of his boots as he walks through an alarm. Clay covered faces which say _you were too late, it's over_. _What did you think you could do? In your fast jet that's not fast enough?_

When prevention is not an option, and recovery is no longer about survival, that's when Scott wants it all to be over. To never have to wear the suit or fly the plane or hold another broken body in his arms.

And he would throw it all away, at the rescues that-feel-like-the-end-of-the-world, if it weren't for his brothers.

Those brothers that look at him – _to_ him - and ask him questions and make jokes and feel the same things he's feeling. Keeping Scott's boots on the ground, his head out of that red tinged sky.

Virgil's practical, of course – _where do we start? What do we need? _Emotionally attached, too. The kind of guy who paints himself into the tragedy, sees their brothers, mother, father, hypothetical children in every victim, every victim's family. _How would I feel, if no one tried? How would we all feel?_

John's a realist, all business and stats, angles and sharpened swords. Though a private, _this is shit _from him over the comms is all Scott needs to feel normal again.

Alan, eyes glassy and round, isn't afraid of his trembling lip, or his _what do we do, now Scott? _A whisper that's almost as loud as the other noise. And Scott puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes it tight, tying himself down.

Gordon?

Gordon looks at the apocalypse and doesn't blink and Scott's not sure whether to be proud or fearful of why that might be. Gordon gets on with the job no matter what Scott says. Walks ahead of everyone with a small glance back, all light and smile, an Orpheus of the waking world.

Scott's heard it from Gordon on the odd occasion – _I'm not like him, I was the least like him, we had nothing in common – _and yeah, the two of them were at each other's throats more often than not, but Dad was nothing but cool in the face of destruction, and Gordon carries the same air with him at rescues. Not a soothing calm, but an _ease_, a _we do this every day, brother, what's different about this?_

_What's different about this?_

Gordon's lighter than expected.

Scott can feel ribs and spine, and that hurts, because hasn't he been eating? From rescue to swim to sleep to rescue to swim to rescue, to rescue, to _rescue – _

Then again, he is still a boy.

A boy who saves hundreds of lives, but a boy nonetheless, who should be drinking too much and taking photos he regrets and breaking hearts, not breaking himself.

When Scott finally sets him down in the med bay of _Thunderbird Two_ he's half sure all his bones are broken too. Virgil drives and Alan trembles and John hovers, and Scott knows his brothers are looking at him to do something, _say _something – but Scott can't do it this time.

Because it's been the end of the world before, but never like this.

* * *

Back before the world ends, Scott lets his little brother borrow his bike (red, shiny bell) and Gordon teaches him how to look for crabs. Their feet get cut as they jump rock pools when tides are low, Gordon: pointing out all the creatures, Scott: pretending to be interested in the life cycle of a limpet. A tattered book on sea life is glued to Gordon's side, and he gives it to Scott to read_: but be careful, it's the only one I've got._

And there are fireworks, one night, when they're all together – Gordon's idea. The five of them, eating jelly babies in the old shed as colours burn the sky and the backs of eyelids. They pass the bag between them, bursts of orange and lime on tongues as they watched and chew - the type of chewing that aches the inside of their teeth. Bits of colour in Gordon's braces. Dust in John's hair. Laughter.

The road trip is Gordon's idea too, after one of those end-of-the-worldrescues. Scott's a wreck but nobody knows (at least, he thought nobody did) until Gordon knocks on his door with a backpack slung over his shoulders and the ocean in his eyes.

The trip is plagued with constant rains, from drizzles to downpours and back without a smidge of blue in-between. Gordon stops in the middle of a thunderstorm to feel the rain – the idiot. An utter, fool-hardy, bad-at-navigating idiot, but Scott can't help but look at him and see freedom.

They reach the east coast, as far away as they're going to get. The margin of the ocean is in sight and it's just them, together, in between reality and the pull of the tide. Gulls caw into the night and the smell of salt sticks to their clothes. There's light in Gordon's eyes even as it starts to rain.

"Let's never go back," Scott says, though he doesn't mean for Gordon to hear him. It falls from him, a plea, to know the world will end, but to never see it happen.

"What?"

"Let's swim to the horizon and never go back."

Gordon laughs, rain in his hair, eyelashes. "You'd never make it that far."

Scott doesn't laugh. Gordon moves closer, nudges him gently. "C'mon, we've got to back."

Gulls caw and rain falls. Cars drive past.

"Why?"

It takes a moment, but it comes, rolls in like a wave. "Because, y'know. It's in our blood, isn't it? Saving the world."

He's right, of course, and they go back, and Scott forgets he ever felt like that. Rides the adrenaline waves like he was born for it – he _was_ born for it.

It's in their blood.

But it costs blood too. Scott just always hoped it'd be his blood over theirs.

* * *

When they know he'll be okay, Virgil squeezes all of the air out of Scott.

Without a word, wraps his arms tight and doesn't let go. Scott brushes him off, all _Virg, I knew he'd be fine, c'mon save that for when Gordo's back on his feet._

But it's nice and stops him from falling apart.

Gordon's all casts and slings, and there's bruises on the patches of skin they can see. There's a smile too, beneath it all, a cheeky one-eye open one-shut grin, like he's facing the sun. "A bit dramatic, don't ya think?"

Virgil's practical – _what do you need? Can we help in any way?_ Wears Gordon's pain like it's his own, digests it in silence, in the hugs that he gives.

John's a realist – talking recovery time and physiotherapy and how International Rescue will manage without him. Then privately, how shit this is, and how damn glad he is they installed those emergency codes.

Alan's glassy eyed and trembling, touching Gordon where he can, falling asleep on the edge of the bed, unafraid of his affection, of getting close.

Scott walks.

He walks away from the room, out into the hospital. He walks from one end to the other, then back, then outside, then through a park, then down a street until the light sky dips into dark and he has to use his watch to light his way back.

Then, out of breath, he sits and takes Gordon's hand in his own. Brings it up to his chest and holds it there. Doesn't say anything, just keeps his brothers gaze.

And Gordon?

He doesn't blink, looks at Scott like he's crazy. _We do this every day, brother. Don't tell me you didn't see this coming?_

"What's that face for?" He asks in a voice that is barely a voice at all, but is still so _Gordon_. "They're just bones. They'll heal. It's not the end of the world."

Scott laughs, once, and shakes his head.

He hands a bag of jelly babies over to Alan to pass around.

They talk till Gordon falls asleep, chew until their teeth ache.


End file.
